The Scripted Goodbye

The spotlight was on my face as I spoke directly to the camera, explaining the core design concept of the new product. The bullet comments in the live stream room scrolled quickly, with pink gift special effects occasionally streaking across the screen. This was the new product promotion I had been preparing for six months. The moment the door opened, I caught a glimpse of that familiar figure out of the corner of my eye. It's Randal Dawson. He wasn't wearing his usual bespoke suit; dressed casually, he still radiated an undeniable nobility. But his face was shockingly pale, with heavy red veins under his eyes. The bullet comments in the live stream room instantly went crazy, completely drowning out the original product discussions. "Is that Mr. Dawson?" "Oh my god, why is Mr. Dawson here?" I tightened my grip on the microphone, kept a smile on my face, and softly said to the camera, "Please wait a moment, everyone." I thought he had come to confront me. After all, in these past two weeks, the few times we met were scarce, and every call ended with his impatience. But I never expected him to walk straight up to me and, in front of countless cameras, slowly drop to one knee. The sound of his knee hitting the floor went 'thud'—not loud, but it struck my heart like a hammer. The live stream room totally exploded. The bullet comments were so thick they nearly covered the entire screen, gift special effects flooded everywhere, and the servers even lagged briefly. "Did I see that right? Did Mr. Dawson just kneel?" "Help, my hands are shaking—someone please tell me what's going on!" Randal Dawson lifted his head, his eyes filled with a stubbornness and fatigue I couldn't fathom. "Helen," he said, his voice rough and hoarse, "let's get a divorce." My heart felt gripped by an invisible hand, a tight, overwhelming pain spreading through me. These words—I had imagined them before, just never expected to hear them said like this, in a moment like this. "Why?" I heard my voice trembling, but I forced myself to stay composed. "I want to marry Thea," he said with absolute conviction, as if it were his one true obsession. "If I can't marry her, I'll die with no peace." Thea. Thea Sullivan. I've heard that name way too many times lately. His phone wallpaper is her, his pinned chats are her, and even the faint scent on his clothes is the unique cream fragrance from her cake shop. Before I could even respond, the phone at the corner of the table suddenly vibrated. It was assistant Joyce calling. I picked up, and her voice came through the receiver, almost cracking with excitement: "Helen! The new product orders have already surpassed five million! That's more than three times what we expected!" Five million. That number hit me like a thunderbolt, shattering my chaotic thoughts.